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A dark residential neighborhood. No traffic. No barking dogs. No music drifting from shuttered windows. The only sound was the stirring of leaves in the poplar trees. Not what I expected for a studio audition. I parked my car and walked up to each house to read the address.
A girl I met that morning invited me to try out. She was very young and very pretty. She seemed interested in me. Said she’d done some acting. She asked about my time in the navy, foreign travel, sky diving, the cattle drive I’d worked one summer. She surprised me by asking about my love life. Very direct but reasonable if she wanted to know my status. She liked my smile. I was flattered. I played along. She said she had to work that evening, but I might join her. I could try out for a part in their new production. I told her I had no acting experience. She said my life experience would make my acting believable.
Standing with my hand on the iron front gate, I had my doubts. Cold sweat broke across my back. I envisioned the girl’s parents asking me to explain my intentions. What would I say, I came to your house to try out for an acting role? Pathetic. I was a lonely man and acted like one. That pretty much summed up my acting talent. I felt like a fool.
As I lifted my hand from the gate to turn away, I heard whispers from the porch behind a boxwood hedge. Someone laughing or maybe birds chirping?
The porch light switched on, and two small figures rose, still in discussion. One was hooded and cloaked, the other bald and barely clothed with long spidery limbs. They looked like characters in a fantasy sketch. I felt me confidence return, the audition must be legit. Pushing past the iron gate, I climbed three step-stones to the wooden porch. The cloaked figure dropped her hood.
“Mr. Johnson,” the pretty girl from that morning trilled. Flashing a coy smile, she gestured to her bald companion. “Redir Radnoub is with our company. I told her about you. We feared you might not come.”
I stared at the hairless creature. Its brown, mottled skin was as craggy as tree bark. Except for the futuristic weapon slung to her belt, the forest green jerkin and knee-breeches would have better suited the actor to play a gnome in some Viking saga.
Seeing my mouth hanging, the girl said, “Redir is a Clothelik.”
I flushed at my indiscretion. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I haven’t known any stage personalities. I’ve heard how some of you like to stay in character when you’re off-stage.” Redir nodded and chirped to the pretty girl, who chirped back then turned to me.
“Redir understands and wishes you well on your audition.”
“Uh, oh, of course. Thank you, Redir.” I head bowed.
The girl chirped to the bald figure who smiled back, revealing a double row of triangular teeth. I fought my repulsion reflex and wondered at the extremes acters took for their roles.
Redir left and the girl led me into the house.
The front room was quaint and feminine with cornflower blue curtains, slender-legged, wooden furniture, and a roll-top desk.
“Before we record, Mr. Johnson, there is a legal formality to protect you and the company. I need your signature on our contract.” She turned and slid the contract forward on the desk and casually swept her cloak up from her hip. Her star-spangled Wonder Woman costume rekindled my thirst for acting.
I shrugged while I caught my breath. “Certainly. I am here for an audition. That is why I came.” I took up the jade pen, flipped past pages of fine print, and signed the unread contract. “When will I know how I did?”
“Oh, I will be able to tell you before you leave this evening. And whether you are accepted or not, you will be paid for your time. That is Clothelik law.”
I nodded as if I had any idea what Clothelik was. A stage expression I guessed.
“The recording should not take long, longer if your performance is good, shorter if it is less so. You will be paid accordingly.” She gestured to an elevator, stood back for me to enter, and finger waved as it closed.
Ding. The doors opened to a red-carpeted hallway of recessed doors and wall-mounted gas lamps, something like a nineteenth-century luxury hotel. A thin strip of light spilled from an unlatched door and out across the carpet. Behind the door, something banged on the wall. I heard a groan then another. Half expecting to find amorous couple in the throes of passion, I peered in prepared to leap back.
Instead, I found a well-formed woman, perhaps in her twenties, gagged and bound to a poster bed, writhing against leather thongs that stretched her wrists and ankles to the posts. Torn clothing exposed her body down to her hips. Her wide eyes fixed on me, pleading for my help.
Shocked by the scene, I tried to run to her, to free her, and to cover her. But my legs took only small steps to the foot of the bed. To my horror, my unwilling hands reached down and unbuckled my belt then slid down my trousers.
The woman shook her head desperately, “No.” She then cast more fearful eyes to the door behind me. Something was entering the room. From her eyes, it was something truly frightening. Everything went dark.
I awoke in terrible pain, my wrists and ankles tied to a poster bed, my view blocked by a woman’s bare breasts. Rocking for a better view, I banged the bedpost on the wall. I was in a woman’s body, my clothing torn. I tried to yell but only managed a groan through my gag.
A man stepped through the door, tall, dark, dressed ruggedly as if he’d come off safari. Seeing my nakedness, he unbuckled and lowered his pants, smiled wickedly, and came closer.
My attempted scream stopped when I saw a claw reaching around the door, its long, curved nails like tines on a threshing machine. Unable to speak or use my hand, I leaned my shoulder and chin toward the doorway—too late. The creature took the man’s head from his shoulders with a single stroke. Blood spurt from the man’s neck like water from a burst fire hose and splashed over me. It reached for me, and everything went dark.
I found myself back in the red-carpeted hallway. A bang sounded on the wall followed by a couple of groans. I bound to the open door eagerly, prepared to kill whatever I found. My hand came up, scythe-clawed, no longer a hand, good only for ripping flesh.
Inside, a dark-haired man was working his pants down at the foot of a poster bed. A young woman in the bed tried to scream. I slashed out, sending the man’s head across the room. The scent of blood filled my nostrils, rousing my instincts. The girl’s twisting drew me. Her quivering flesh promised tender meat.
I next entered the hotel room as a cleaning lady discovering the bodies, then as the police investigator, the girl’s shocked boyfriend, the sobbing mother.
Then the scene changed completely.
Waves rose and crashed, sending foaming, white water streaming across the rolling, wooden deck. Barrels and boxes broke free, bounced, and slid. Deck cannons pulled at their lashing. Up, up, and up went the mountainous waves, then down, down, down, then up again. Thrown back on the taffrail, I grabbed the wooden railing.
“Cap’m,” cried the scar-faced shipmaster against the storms rage, his half-bald head pouring a waterfall. “B’lieve they got us, Cap’m.” He pointed to a frigate riding our wake, gun ports open. “She be closin’ fast. Soon she be on us, Cap’m, and these seas ‘ll see the last o’ Pirate Johnson.”
A moment later, the gunwales exploded to splinters, and grappling hooks flew into the rigging. Cutlasses slashed, flintlocks flashed, and halberds thrust, twisted, and tore.
The scene next played with me as the scarred shipmaster, then at the helm of the British frigate running down a pirate ship, then the chief gunner, then the boy, falling from the rigging as the ship rolled and drowning in the sea.
Da-ga-dum, da-ga-dum, da-ga-dum. My horse struggled. Two arrows in her flank. I’d broken one off my leg. Another in my back was too far back to reach. A war hoop went up as a Shawnee brave topped the ridge behind me. I saw our ranch below, the cabin a smoldering shell, corral open and empty. No fresh horses. Helen and Tommy were stretched in the yard, broken in a pool of blood. I spurred my mare down the slope. She stumbled and fell, pinning my leg. A moment later they were on me. Outside my own volition, I played every character from that scene.
Other scenarios followed, other characters, other settings, other scenes, one obscenity after another. A cavalcade of horror over which I had no control. Sometimes others joined me: friends, teammates, lovers. Were they part of my trap or trapped like myself?
Then everything stopped, and I found myself back in the red-carpeted hallway.
Ding. The elevator doors opened. I stumbled through, leaned against the back wall, and slid to the floor. Feeling the lift, I feared where it was taking me.
When it stopped, I hauled myself out on wobbling legs and into the quaint room with cornflower blue curtains and slender-legged, wooden furniture.
“Mr. Johnson.” The musical voice barely penetrated my delirium. Now wearing a dark, business suit, the girl waved me to a maroon loveseat in the drawing room. “May I pour you a cup of coffee? Oh, Mr. Johnson, you were truly amazing. You have had a most amazing career.”
“My career? What might that be?” I steadied the blue China cup and saucer rattling in my hands.
The girl nodded, recognizing my confused state. “Your acting career spanned twelve series, each with twelve episodes, and you playing every character. That’s one hundred forty-four episodes and several times that many characters. No one—I mean not anyone in the galaxy—has had such a glorious career. Mr. Johnson, you are my finest recruit, and I am most pleased to tell you that you are a very, very, VERY rich man.”
“What is this Ms.—I’m sorry. I can’t even recall your name.”
“That isn’t important.” She tossed her hair dismissively. “I’m leaving your planet tonight, never to return. That is Clothelik law. We were authorized to record sensations for one hundred forty-four episodes, and your experiences have filled our entire allowance.”
“Uh, excellent, I guess.” My eyelids drooped. “What exactly is Clothelik?”
“We are the ascendant species on Epsilon Eridani. You’ve met two of us, my sister Redir Radnoub and me. She’s not a recruiter so she’s not authorized a human soma or translator. They are quite expensive you know.”
I nodded, eyebrows raised, then rocked my head. “You say I am a rich man?”
“Maybe the richest in the galaxy. And once your series is felt, I’m sure you’ll be the most famous. The adventure, violence, and passion of your species are in high demand. Unfortunately, I am unable to deliver your earnings to you directly. We cannot interfere with Earth’s direction or pace of progress. But you or someone you designate can collect on Epsilon Eridani at any time, or at any of our subsidiary Rigelian or Canopian banks. Do not worry. The contract you signed empowers the Clothelik to manage your money until such time as you are able to collect. The sum will likely exceed the entire value of this star system.”
Tilting her head in a charming schoolgirl manner, she said, “Thank you for your sensations. Is there anything I can do before you leave?”
Wondering how much of a fool I’d been, I had to ask, “I suppose you and r-r-r Rider Redrum—”
“My sister and I are exactly alike Mr. Johnson. Eighteen of us in the litter. My human appearance is for marketing purposes only.”
I nodded, disappointed at how easily I’d been taken. “What day is it?” I felt like I’d aged twenty years.
“Friday night, of course. The same night you arrived. Your session took only,” she checked the grandfather clock on the wall, “two hours, twenty-three minutes. Time compression keeps our recording costs down.”
She led me to the front door. “One thing I forgot to mention—your fan club. If your fans know your real name and location, they will descend on you in the billions, millions of billions in your case, and destroy you and your planet in their fan frenzy. Do not worry, Mr. Johnson. We never disclose home planets or our actors’ real names.”
With that she nudged me onto the porch, shut the door, and switched off the light. Alone and speechless with my jaw hanging, I had the odd feeling that this time I was the jilted lover.
Confused, I peered through the dark window. Except for shadows, the room was empty. Not even the cornflower blue curtains.
CONTRIBUTORS
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Stuart Watson wrote for newspapers in Anchorage, Seattle and Portland. His writing is in yolk.literary, Barzakh, Two Hawks Quarterly, MacQueen’s Quarterly, Bloom, Fewer than 500, Mystery Tribune, Bending Genres (Best Microfictions nominee), 433, Flash Boulevard, Revolution John, Montana Mouthful, Sledgehammer Lit, Five South, Shotgun Honey, The Writing Disorder, Grey Sparrow Journal, Reckon Review, Muleskinner Journal and Pulp Modern Flash, among others. He lives in Oregon with his wife and their amazing dog.
Harold Hoss’ previous publishing credits include "It Feasts" in Grim & Gilded, "The Blue Whale of Catoosa" in Fiction on the Web, "Don't Let the Sleeping Bag Bugs Bite" in Trembling With Fear, "Who Are You Talking To?" in Chamber Magazine, "Follow Me" in Running Wild Anthology of Short Stories vol. 6 (headlined by Jonathan Mayberry), "Taking Teeth" in the Molotov Cocktail, "Knock" in Black Ink Fiction, "The Tooth Fairy's Apprentice" in Black Hare Press, "Thursday 10:52 pm" in The Yard: Crime Blog, "Another Good Year" in the upcoming Lovecrafiana: Halloween 2023 Anthology for Rogue Planet, and, his favorite, "The Leviathan" in Dark Horses Magazine. In addition, his short screenplay "While My Sex Doll Gently Weeps" was the winner of the Reale Film Festival and the Absurd Film Festival, and a finalist in 13HORROR.com's Film and Screenplay contest.
Noah Lang is a filmmaker and writer based in Los Angeles. Past works have appeared at festivals such as Sundance, Cannes, and SXSW. His writing has appeared in Film Threat, Hammer to Nail, Video Librarian, and NoFilmSchool.
Michael Bondies writes horror and dark fantasy. His stories have appeared in such places as Chilling Horror Short Stories (Flame Tree Press), Tales to Terrify, and Bards and Sages Quarterly. Raised in Dallas, Texas, and a graduate of the University of Colorado at Denver, he kept heading west and now lives in beautiful (and haunted?) Portland, Oregon. When he’s not writing, you will usually find him playing guitar.
Jessica McGlyn lives in Washington D.C. and is a member of the Capitol Hill Writers Group. She writes short stories in different genres, gravitating towards eeriness and dark humor.
Lillie E. Franks is an author and eccentric who lives in Chicago, Illinois with the best cats. You can read her work at places like Always Crashing, Poemeleon, and Drunk Monkeys or follow her on Twitter at @onyxaminedlife. She loves anything that is not the way it should be.
Tiffany Sumner holds a Master’s of Creative Writing from Rosemont College and is the former managing editor of Rathalla Review. She has been published in The Lilith Review, Hippocampus Magazine, Pank, Red Door, Rathalla Review, and The Virginia Living Magazine. She was mentored by Carmen Maria Machado, who worked with her on The Myth of Her, and Dorothy Allison.
A college administrator by day, Bob Gielow (he/him) spins tales in formats we all use when communicating with each other: text messages, emails, fictional Wikipedia posts, and diary entries all allow him to be clinical and thorough in describing his characters, their thinking and actions ... without diminishing his ability to explore the resulting human emotions.
A transplanted native in a city full of them, James Harper is a bestselling horror writer working in Washington DC. He has several stories in a variety of publications that can be found on his Amazon page at https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0792RQSZR. A single father, he lives with his brilliant teenaged daughter in Gaithersburg, Maryland, a suburb just north of the District. His love of music is only rivalled by his passion for film but both take a backseat when a Phillies game is on.
After a career in technical writing, lifelong storyteller K.A. Kenny stepped up to the serious business of speculative fiction. Eight of his short stories have been published since 2021, and his Sci-Fi novel The Starflower is forthcoming. K.A. has an MA in History from George Washington University. He lives with his wife Carole and dogs Cato and Mac in Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains.
Wayne Kyle Spitzer is an American writer, illustrator, and filmmaker. He is the author of countless books, stories and other works, including a film (Shadows in the Garden), a screenplay (Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows), and a memoir (X-Ray Rider). His work has appeared in MetaStellar—Speculative fiction and beyond, subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History, among others. He holds a Master of Fine Arts degree from Eastern Washington University, a B.A. from Gonzaga University, and an A.A.S. from Spokane Falls Community College. His recent fiction includes The Man/Woman War cycle of stories as well as the Dinosaur Apocalypse Saga. He lives with his sweetheart Ngoc Trinh Ho in the Spokane Valley.